Page 21 of Heart on the Line

Mrs. Shaw waved her hand as if to brush away his offer. “We’ll worry about that later. For now, just know that you’re welcome here. Your satchel and saddlebags are already inside, and we’ve seen to your mule.”

Willful. Amos hid a shudder. “I’ll need to return that beast to Stranton’s Livery in Seymour sometime soon.”

“Stranton’s?” the marshal broke in. “That explains it. I wondered why in the world a man with a scrap of intelligence would choose a stubborn cuss like that to transport him. I nearly threw my shoulder out yanking on that ornery critter’s lead line while trying to move him away from the ladies’ garden plot. Obstinate thing refused to budge.”

Amos felt the pieces of his tattered manhood being stitched back together. If Malachi Shaw—a gun-toting, denim-wearing man’s man—struggled to corral Willful, then Amos need feel no shame for his own failures.

“He’s a handful, that’s for sure.” He gestured to his sorry state of dress. “I had a bit of difficulty with him myself, as you might have surmised from my less than orderly appearance.” He darted a glance at Miss Mallory, pleased to see she looked sympathetic. “But I was in a hurry to get to Harper’s Station, and he was the best of the horseflesh left to choose from.”

“Ah.” The marshal drew Amos’s attention away from Grace as he tugged his wife toward the door, then gestured for Amos and Grace to go out ahead of him.

Amos plunked his hat on his head again and smiled at Grace. She offered a small, shy smile in return before pivoting to exit. He followed, his gaze taking in the slender line of her neck and the curves nipping in at her waist.

“Next time you’re in Seymour, head to Bart Porter’s place.” The marshal’s voice had Amos jerking his gaze away from the woman in front of him to focus on the far less interesting features of Malachi Shaw. “His livery is a couple blocks south of the depot, but his stock is far superior and less likely to be picked over since he’s not the first livery visitors find when they get off the train. All the locals know to go to Porter’s.”

“Thanks,” Amos said, not thankful at all to still be talking with the marshal about mules and horses when who he really wanted to talk with was the woman who’d halted a few steps away from him. “I’ll remember that.”

“Tori mentioned that Ben will be making a delivery run through here tomorrow,” Mrs. Shaw added, prolonging the discussion. “He’s Bart’s brother. I’m sure he’d be happy to return your mule when he goes back to Seymour after his deliveries. He can pick you out a better mount and bring it with him next time he comes to town.”

“Actually, I’d prefer a bicycle.” Amos edged closer to Grace, hoping his abrupt change in subject would give him the chance to offer his escort.

“A what?”

Really? Was the marshal sabotaging him on purpose? Everyone knew what a bicycle was. The things were all the rage back east.

Amos frowned at Shaw. “A velocipede. An accelerator. A two-wheeled, man-powered vehicle. You know, a bicycle.”

“You’re a wheelman?” Mrs. Shaw practically bounced in excitement, which only made her husband scowl. “I’ve seen pictures in magazines, but I’ve never seen one in person. Oh, Mal, can you just imagine Aunt Henry’s reaction?” She spun to beam at her husband, effectively banishing his frown. “With all she’s read about how the velocipede is emancipating women, she’d be thrilled to see one in action! The bicycle costumes with their bloomers and split skirts, the freedom to go where one wills, and the independence of manufacturing one’s own mobility. She’ll be over the moon!” She brushed past Amos, ran up to Grace, and grabbed her hands. “I’m going to talk to Tori about placing an order. What do you think? Four? Five? I know Aunt Henry will want one, and I’d love to try one as well. Do you think any other ladies would like one? If Amos would be willing to give us some instruction, we could have a town full of bicycles! Much cheaper to maintain than a horse, and with extra health benefits.”

“Don’t you think you’re getting a little ahead of yourself there, Emma?” The marshal’s frown was back in place as he strode up to his wife. “Henry is fifty-three years old. If she gets up on one of those contraptions, she’s liable to fall off and break her neck. Tell her, Bledsoe.” Shaw pierced Amos with a look that demanded full agreement.

But Amos was tired of this conversation and just cranky enough to be obstinate. Maybe Willful had rubbed off on him. “My mother rides one on occasion, and she’s around the same age. They’re quite safe once you learn to balance.”

Shaw’s eyes narrowed and a muscle in his jaw twitched in a rather menacing fashion. Amos decided he’d poked the bear enough.

“Although the roads in Denison are in much better condition than what I’ve seen here,” he added. “Ruts and erosion do make learning rather difficult.”

“The area where we’re building our house is flat and hard-packed,” Emma insisted, unperturbed by the dark cloud settling over her husband’s features. “It would be a perfect place to learn! I’m going to find Tori.” She turned back to Grace. “Expect us first thing tomorrow morning with an order to wire.”

Then, in a swirl of skirts, she spun around and hied off toward a large building bearing a sign that proclaimed it the general store. The marshal just shook his head and let out a sigh even as his lips curved into a smile, attesting to his fondness for the whirlwind force that was his wife.

“She’s probably gonna have the entire town wheeled up by the end of the month.” Shaw eyed Amos. “Why couldn’t you just ride a horse like a normal person?”

Amos shrugged. “My family says I’ve always been a little on the odd side.”

A strong hand came down on Amos’s shoulder. “Then you’ll feel right at home in Harper’s Station.” Shaw tipped his head toward Grace, the only one who hadn’t jumped into this crazy conversation, yet the one who’d captured Amos’s complete attention without saying a word. “You mind seeing Miss Mallory home? I gotta make sure Em doesn’t bankrupt us with this new bicycle scheme.”

Amos looked at the woman standing quietly in front of him, whose eyes communicated more than a person’s tongue ever could. And right now those eyes seemed to have lit with the same anticipation he felt thrumming through his veins.

A chance to be alone. Finally. To talk through matters of true importance, like who was threatening her, and how Amos could help.

Like how well they might suit, should they decide to explore a new facet of their relationship.

Like asking permission to take her hand so he could discover if her skin was truly as soft as it appeared.

Without turning his gaze away from the woman before him, Amos answered. “Yes. I’ll see Miss Mallory home.”

10